The Prodigal Son

Tonight I went to my parents house at the bequest of my father. For about three months he has mentioned to me how he needed me to get the remaining amount of crap out of my old room. Apparently I am on the endangered list at my old pad. I say this because my two sister's rooms are still intact and not disturbed. Well, that is for the layers of dust beginning to claim residence in the rooms. I find this funny for a couple of reasons.

One, am I not the oldest child, the first fruit of the loins, the bearer of the inheritance, and specifically the ONLY MALE CHILD ON THE MCCORMICK SIDE! This makes me the sole person responsible for the continuation of the proud family name. I guess the fun-gun shys away from the Y chromosome. Two, I am the only child living in town. One sister has moved away, married, and has a family. The other has an apartment in a whole other town, closer to the Granny. But, despite the fact that I am a mere 20 minute drive away, mine is the room resolved to the fate of too much junk. Not my junk, their junk, their junk that has already taken over one guest room like the kudzu is taking over the south. But am I bitter, no, because I know when they get older, I will be the first everyone comes to for decisions to be made, then I will have my revenge ("evil menical laugh").

I went into the cleaning with the idea I was going to throw most of it away, because if I haven't used it or needed by now, then more than likely I wasn't going to need it. But, sifting through what was essentially my memories for the past ten years hit me harder than I expected. I found all kinds of great mementos, letters, inside jokes, and items I just couldn't bear to through away. I know they have no practical use other than me looking at them and tumbling into a nostalgic trance for an hour or an afternoon. When it was all said and done, I had four larges bags of trash and eight boxes of my childhood/adolesence I just couldn't part with. Those boxes have a resting place of the storage shed above my garage. I might not look at them for the next ten years, but at least I know they will be there in case they are needed. Little boxes of friends, feel-goods, and more simply times. "It is the experience of the past that make us who we are today", this is not uncommonly heard or told, but throwing this stuff away would be like throwing little pieces of me away. And that is just not acceptable. So they now hides in a dark, dry place awaiting an opportunity to put a smile on my face and a tear in my eye.